"There is nothing whatever to be done. Give her rest, that's all; absolute rest. She looks as if she has been worked beyond her strength. Is that so?"
Avery nodded mutely.
"It must stop," he said. "She is in a very precarious state, and any exertion, mental or physical, is bound to hasten the end—which cannot, in any case, be very far off."
He released Avery's hand and walked to the window, where he stood gazing out to sea with drawn brows.
"The disease is of a good many months' standing," he said. "It has taken very firm hold. Such a child as that should have been sheltered and cosseted, shielded from every hardship. Even then—very possibly—this would have developed. No one can say for certain."
"Can you advise—nothing?" said Avery in a voice that sounded oddly dull and emotionless even to herself.
"Nothing," said Maxwell Wyndham. "No medical science can help in a case like this. Give her everything she wants, and give her rest! That is all you can do for her now."
Avery came and stood beside him. The blow had fallen, but she had scarcely begun to feel its effects. There was so much to be thought of first.
"Please be quite open with me!" she said. "Tell me how long you think she will live!"
He turned slightly and looked at her. "I can tell you what I think, Lady Evesham," he said. "But, remember, that does not bring the end any nearer."